


melting

by sakon



Category: Lucha Underground
Genre: Gen, Set Before Both Of Their Introductions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24451030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakon/pseuds/sakon
Summary: "I'll call Kill, huh?" He raises a brow and gets no response, pulling out his phone regardless.Ryck grumbles, teeth gritted. It's grumbled with a sense of commanding authority, but it's something that Mack shrugs off. He's known him too long to be bothered by his attitude, so Mack merely rolls his eyes and guesses what he said was a yes."Aight, then."The betrayal of The Crew leads Ryck to a safe place.
Relationships: Willie Mack | The Mack & Ezekiel Jackson | Big Ryck & Isaiah Scott | Killshot | Shane Strickland
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	melting

A knock at his door sends him launching up from his bed at the asscrack of midnight. The rapping against the door could only come from one person, so he slips from his unmade bed with shaking knees and a balled fist rubbing against his eye. 

He shakes off the grogginess, stumbling in a daze towards the door, and when he unlocks it, he hangs out the doorway.

It's his cousin, a hand clutched over his eye and a closed-off look. Mack knows he's pissed, and if he looks hard enough, he can see the tiny remnants of ash and the makings of future scars peeking through his fingers. The scars will be rough and dirty, and he wants to peer at it for a moment longer.

But looking doesn't matter at that point, not with Ryck clutching at the door like a lifeline, teeth gritted; the only thing that matters is getting him inside. 

And so he does, grabbing at the muscles firmly and letting the bulk lean into him. He sets him down onto the couch as gently as he can, fixing a cushion before flicking on the lights. It's a little crummy, the apartment, but it's home. 

He does a double take at Ryck, and finds he isn't as shocked as he should be, but he still feels vengeance ache in his stomach. It's quickly replaced by concern as he gets a bowl of water and sets it at his side with a damp rag. He places the soaking rag on the eye Ryck was clutching and hears the clack of his teeth clenching. 

"I'll call Kill, huh?" He raises a brow and gets no response, pulling out his phone regardless.

Ryck grumbles, teeth gritted. It's grumbled with a sense of commanding authority, but it's something that Mack shrugs off. He's known him too long to be bothered by his attitude, so Mack merely rolls his eyes and guesses what he said was a yes.

"Aight, then." 

If there's one thing he knows how to do, it's how to take things at surface level and leave things alone. 

He's already clicked Killshot’s contact one-handed in the second it takes to think it over, with the other hand resting on Ryck. A voice comes as a murmur on the phone. It takes mere milliseconds for the words to come from his lips, with the end flash of the notification and the long ring from the phone signifying Killshot’s heading there. 

It takes minutes for Killshot to arrive, but as always, there's no certain time he comes. There is no knock on his door. The near silent steps against the broken tiles, the silhouette of red and black stepping closer and closer until— The Mack turns around.

He jumps back out of instinct more than fear. Even beneath the strange mask, it wasn’t like he couldn’t see who he was. That wouldn't stop him from jumping on instinct.

“Gimme a warning next time,” He groans and watches Killshot walk methodically closer and closer. 

He stalks by, shrugging, eyes flickering up at him. It's the most of a response he or Ryck gets out of him most days. It's practically a yes, but the Mack knows that he'll do the same thing the next day. 

He's close enough to kneel, and so he does, pressing his head against Ryck's chest to hear his heart. It's one of those things he's learned not to question, like the many tales of strange animals and people from the Temple— or where he got his money.

He lays out a kit for cleaning it up, tiny knives gleaming beside scalpels, bandaids and wraps and hydrogen peroxide sitting on top of the ordered piles of unknown chemicals and medicines. Slim fingers pry the rag off his eye and get to work by examining him with an obvious gentleness and firmness.

Killshot's always been good at those things. Words of inquiry form on his tongue, but the reminder— let dead dogs lie where they lie— pops back into his mind. It doesn't dissuade him from asking. He’ll ask, Killshot won’t tell, and he’ll move on to the next curiosity. 

"Why are you so good at fixing people up?"

Killshot gives him a pointed look. He knows not to ask, yet asked regardless. He rolls his eyes with a minuscule smirk.

"Alright," He put his hands up in surrender for a moment, then quickly placing them back onto his cousin's face. The hard contour of his skin, the dip of his wrinkles as his face scrunched.

Because of course he won't show it.

He watches Killshot prepare to get to work, lining up the bandages and things he'll need methodically. 

Killshot lifts a hand from his eye, the soft mucus-like, melty substance snailing down his fingers. His eye is melted. He's seen much worse, but it makes his stomach curl. It must burn.

"Cousin, it's gon be alright." He murmurs, his thumb tracing the places where ashes once buried and burnt into his skin.

Ryck needs no softness, no touches to reassure him at the end of the day and take him to the next day. He moves to the next day regardless of losses and burns, and they all knew it. Mack still closes his other eye and hums a tune. 

Maybe Ryck appreciates it, but the relaxing of his muscles lets him know it's working. He stays until his breathing falls hushed, sleep drawing him in as Killshot worked. 

And when he's asleep, he heads to the kitchen to cook. They all need a good meal, after all.

* * *

It's later into night. The front light of his apartment shines a bleak, dulled yellow like the dumped and ruined yellow spiral notebooks he used to throw away. He's approaching Ryck, a plate in his hand.

Killshot isn't there. The man, tall and slim, retired to the couch in cramped living room after noting the dissarray of his house. If Mack's right, he's either about to fix it up silently and with scary order, or wait until they're done to get him to do it. 

It reminds him of a mother. Killshot has a distinct lack of motherly doting, but he's helping to cook and clean and budget, often times making money stretch beyond his intended target. That doesn't make him any less caring though, and when he gives a glare, he knows it has good intentions. 

He's worlds away, yet Mack extends a hand to him because maybe he needs that compassion in a black hole, or maybe the worlds will slowly ebb away, revealing the man under the mask and his true self. But it's his pace. Mack doesn't care how long it takes, so he leaves him to his own devices, still making him a plate. 

But now that Killshot is inside, it's just the two of them.

"Ryck," He calls out to him. A certain quality has changed about him, but Mack isn't sure what it is, "I got you some food."

He's dwelling on the steps up to his apartment, puffing on a cigar. His eye is foggy, distantly hazy with the pouring yellow lights and the white specks of passing cars in his eyes. Perhaps there's something in the distance that Mack can't see. 

After a moment, he turns around.

A long pause breaks through the crickets and cigar smoke. Ryck crushes the cigar with an angered hand and tosses it through the gaps in the railing.

"Thanks." His voice comes out low, voice still gruff and strong.

He offers the plate, hands dirtied from spending his time in the kitchen while Killshot took care of him. Ryck doesn’t shy away from the grime on his fingers, their hands barely meeting as he takes the plate. He doesn’t take his time, only seeming to delve into the rare amenities that the world at that moment had to offer, and a smile plays on Mack's lips. 

“You’re welcome.”

* * *


End file.
